


Bear Seeking Employment

by KonohanaShuffle



Category: Rockman X | Mega Man X
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:46:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25501585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KonohanaShuffle/pseuds/KonohanaShuffle
Summary: This is related to MMX in only the loosest sense, to be honest. I made Ben up for a creative writing RPG I was planning to rejoin, and I only ended up making a handful of posts with him. Turns out even when I build a character for a combat-oriented game, I still don't enjoy writing it.Anyway, this series of posts is what I wrote to introduce him.
Kudos: 1





	Bear Seeking Employment

**Three Thousand a Fight, Two Loss Limit**  
At first, all he heard was buzzing, followed by a low, pulsing roar. It took a moment of listening for him to realize it was the crowd. So that was what it was like, being knocked unconscious. He opened his eyes, frowning when it took his receptors a moment to come into focus.

The first thing he saw was his opponent's back, arms raised and hands clasped above his head in celebration of another victory.

He heard the roaring vanish in a gasp and sudden hush as he rolled slowly to his feet, finding most of his joints still in working order even as his systems struggled to compensate for the hammering he'd taken. His left shoulder and torso were battered, his opponent's strikes cutting through the flimsy armor he'd been issued to leave damage perilously close to his power core.

One of his ears dangled by a thread of synthetic flesh, testament to the power of the blow that had rattled his systems so badly. He wasn't certain how much of the rest of his face had been torn, exposing his metal skeleton, but from the sound of the crowd, he was sure he must have lost at least some.

His opponent had turned by now, surprise evident on his blocky features. Then he smiled, gap-toothed and unfriendly, and spread his hands, fingers flicking lightly in invitation. "Come and get me," said his posture, and the announcers' voices erupted in excitement.

His lips peeled back from his teeth in an even less friendly grin. Who was he to refuse?

In the next moment, he launched himself across the pit, closing the space between them in less than a second. He threw his fist almost before he commanded it to and felt a satisfying crunch of armor around his knuckles. His other fist flew after the first, this one striking his opponent's face as his first hand withdrew.

The other Reploid staggered under the assault, flailing one arm up defensively as he attempted to regroup, but he only continued to retreat. Abandoning his token effort at defense, he launched a strike at the challenger, gaze focusing in relief and triumph when the blow landed. The expression faded almost at once, however, when their eyes met.

The challenger's face was still cast in that rictus grin, even as he pushed past his opponent's fist to deliver a vicious hook that sent him reeling. He clamped his arms around the larger Reploid, temporarily stopping the hail of blows, and restrained a shudder at the feeling of his arms straining against their imprisonment.

The challenger gave him little respite, however, rearing back his massive, bear-like head and butting him in the face. He staggered, and the head came at him again, then again, a jackhammer against his skull. His tenacious grip lasted nearly ten seconds before the bear broke free and he attempted a retreat, only to find he'd retreated as far as he could.

The bear pressed his advantage with a flurry of punches, so lost in the rhythm of his fists that he didn't hear the crowd -- didn't hear the announcers -- didn't hear the frantic voice shouting, "Stop -- STOP!" -- until two other Reploids gripped his arms and dragged him away. He struggled at first, then relaxed when his gaze came into focus on the body of his opponent, slumped against the cracked wall of the pit, the armor that protected his chest concave.

"Enough," he said, and the Reploids released him to return to their posts on either side of the arena.

The crowd was silent, the announcers conferring softly with one another and the referee. He looked at his prospective agent, brows lifting, and the human, short and round, scurried into the ring, shaking his head and wagging the stringy ponytail that caught up his thinning hair.

"Jesus Holy Christ, Ben, you coulda killed the guy!" he hissed.

"I recall you telling me that was an acceptable risk -- one I needed to be prepared for," Ben grunted.

"Yeah, only if it's an /accident,/ buddy --"

A rustle drew their attention back to the announcers, one of whom was standing now. The referee's eyes were on Ben, one hand resting across his mouth. Ben returned his gaze, arching an eyebrow, and he looked away.

"The winner!" the announcer barked, hand stretched toward the bear. His opponent was being wheeled out of the ring, a medic silently bagging a few broken parts that lay scattered on the floor. "In a major upset -- dethroning the ten-time city champ -- Benjamin Damascus!"

The crowd roared. Ben blinked in the sudden wash of sound, craning his head around the arena for a moment and resisting the impulse to take a step backward.

"Give 'em a wave, Ben," he heard his manager say, just on the edge of his consciousness, and he lifted one hand, giving it a brief shake before clenching it into a fist.

Then he walked from the pit, out of the glaring lights and into the subdued, metal-lined hallways that led to the waiting rooms.

"'Kay," his manager was saying, jogging to keep up with his long strides, "You know you only won that 'cause the guy was stupid. You can't go takin' hits like that and expect to last long in this business."

"Then I will have to improve," Ben broke into the man's speech, rubbing thoughtfully at his chin.

"Yeah, that's what I'm saying --"

"Relax, Mitch." Ben set one huge hand firmly on the small man's shoulder. "It's only natural to want to improve at something one enjoys."

"Sure, sure -- we'll have to arrange some training time --" He broke off, peering up at the much taller Reploid sharply. "Wait, so you're staying on?"

Ben paused and looked silently at his hands for a moment, tracing the path from his activation to where he stood. The emotions that raged in him through the fight lingered, an exultation he had never before experienced in a psyche he thought he had understood. He glanced up and met the eager eyes of his would-be manager, clearly already anticipating the money he could bring in.

"I think I will."

He looked at his agent, and the man was frowning. One hand rubbed his sallow cheek, warping the flesh with its uneasy movement, and he looked at his fighter, mouth tightening. "Then I guess I better tell ya ... you weren't supposed to win."

Ben's brows lifted.

"Well, lookit, you were fighting the champ -- most fighters don't start at the top, yaknow."

"True."

He spread his hands. "Fact is ... the guy who was supposed to fight him dropped out at the last minute -- we couldn't cancel the match, the financial consequences would be devastating." The small man looked away, heat rising into his face as sweat broke out across his brow. "They tol' me to go find some fodder for him."

"Fodder, is it?" A grim smile curved Ben's lips. "Then I suppose I should apologize."

"N-no, you won it fair and square. You're the champ now. Somehow." He ran his hand through his thinning hair, then ran it through again. "We'll have to work out the details later."

Ben looked over his shoulder toward the arena, where the crowd’s screams were only now beginning to die. "I am afraid," he said slowly, consideringly, "that if the champion wants his crown returned, he will have to fight for it."

\--

**Rare and Priceless**  
"Benjamin! Come here at once!"

Ben paused at the familiar bellow, setting down the vase he was carrying -- a priceless antiquity, irreplaceable and full of historical significance, he was told -- with exaggerated care. Then he made his way from the storage room, one of the mansion's many, with the delicacy of a stalking cat, no mean feat for a Reploid with a frame the size and shape of a polar bear.

"Benjamin!"

When he arrived at the study, his employer was pacing impatiently, one hand behind his back and the other clasped around the handle of his cane. He stumbled when he saw the bear looming silently in his doorway, then he scowled, lifting the cane to point it at him much in the manner of someone holding a sword.

"You're not a mute, I saw to that. Announce yourself instead of trying to give me a heart attack."

"As you wish, Mr. Sulemann."

The aging human made a sniffy sound and turned to stalk toward one of the many bookshelves that lined his walls. Stopping in front of it, he once again thrust his cane at the offending object -- a bundle of papers on the top of the shelf.

"Fetch me those down," he said, and the polar bear moved to obey.

It wasn't a difficult matter -- he didn't even need to stretch his arm to reach them -- and by the time he'd turned to his employer, the man was limping back to his desk.

"Bring them here, bring them here," he said, waving his free hand impatiently. "Really, Benjamin, growing old is a trial." He plopped down in his chair, waiting for his assistant's approach and snatching the pages from his fingers.

"So I'm told, sir."

Sulemann glanced at him and scowled. "That you are. Now have a seat. I need your mind for this." He waved a hand absently as his gaze flicked back to the pages.

Ben looked at him doubtfully for a moment, then studied the chair he'd indicated. An analysis of its structural integrity seemed to indicate it would by no means support his weight or his bulk should he try to sit in it. He settled for seating himself delicately on the floor in front of the desk, finding his head and shoulders still well above the edge.

"Cross-reference this with everything you have on the Dead Sea Scrolls." Sulemann dangled a paper before him, and he filed it, rapidly accessing the requested information.

His head bowed slightly, expression thoughtful. "There appears to be no connection, sir. The dating puts the documents close in date of origin -- very close, in fact. But they emerged in different regions and from, if I'm not mistaken, different cultures."

The man's face wrinkled into a smug look of satisfaction. "Thank you, Benjamin. Now file these and return them to the shelf, and you may go."

"As you wish, Mr. Sulemann."

He got to his feet as smoothly as his bulky body allowed, scooping up the papers and sorting through them rapidly before returning them to their perch. He had reached the door and ducked halfway through it when the doorbell rang, sounding a surprisingly loud echo through the house.

His master made an irritable sound. "Damn. Damn! I forgot they were -- Ben, get the door."

He was already on his way, however, turning the handle to admit the man's daughter, son-in-law and granddaughter.

"Oh --" the woman said, lips pursing slightly. "Benjamin, hello."

"Mrs. Riley."

He stepped aside -- there was more than enough room in the foyer to do so -- but she nevertheless inched carefully past him. He ignored this, as well as her husband's wary smile, but the bright-eyed stare of her daughter, perched on the woman's hip, caught his eye, and he frowned. Then he flinched back slightly as she gave a bubbling laugh, reaching for him with a tiny hand.

"Winifred, stop that," her mother said absently, and the child's attention turned away immediately.

Ben closed the door and turned silently back toward the storage room he'd been working in, attempting to ignore the conversation that faded behind him.

"Deborah," Sulemann said.

"Hello, Dad -- I was afraid you'd forgotten." Her tone indicated she knew he had.

He sniffed. "Of course not. How long will she be staying?"

"Just for a few hours. The concert won't last that long."

"Very well. I imagine I can spare that much time."

"Well, I sure hope so -- you're the one who said you could do this!"

"Debbie --"

"Deborah, you understand the demands on my time -- I apologize for my tone, but --"

"Dad -- look, we'll be back in a couple of hours."

Finally out of earshot and safely returned to his work, Ben looked at the artifacts with a faint frown. The ones in place were sorted, but several remained to be brought up from the basement. He had just run through the inventory file in his systems when a small giggle sounded behind him, and a small hand closed in the cloth of his trousers -- bear or not, his master insisted he dress well.

He turned his head. "Winifred."

The toddler burbled at him, uttering a string of sounds barely identifiable as words.

He sighed and scooped her off the floor. "Your mother does not approve of these excursions. Nor does your grandfather."

Comfortably seated on his arm, she reached up to pat at his face, beaming. "Benny-bear!" she said, one of the few things he recognized.

"I suppose I am," he murmured, stepping into the hall just in time to hear Deborah's voice.

"Where is she?! Frank, weren't you watching her?"

"You were the one holding her, Debbie --"

He stepped quickly into view, clearing his throat, and the adults whirled to face him, alarm in their expressions. The little girl waved at her parents, beaming, then pointed at Ben.

"Benny-bear!" she said, looking terribly pleased with herself.

Deborah lunged across the space between them, expression tight. "Thank you for bringing her back," she said shortly, and snatched the child from him only to set on the floor again, nudging her toward her grandfather.

Sulemann looked less than pleased with the action.

"You'd best be on your way," he said, waving his cane toward the door. "Wouldn't want to miss your concert."

Deborah scowled at him, but she didn't say anything, nodding shortly to her husband and turning to the door, crisp and businesslike. Frank shuffled after her, and Sulemann watched them go, looking as though he'd just swallowed something sour.

"For pity's sake," he said with some disgust.

"G'mpa?" The child was tugging on his pants leg now.

"Yes, Winifred?" The scowl left his face, replaced with one of patient politeness -- as close to being gentle as the man ever got, in Ben's perfect recollection.

The child pointed at Ben. "Benny-bear?"

"Yes, of course, Winifred." Sulemann looked at him, arching an eyebrow. "Benjamin, I'm afraid I'm far too busy today to play with her -- keep her away from anything delicate, if you would."

"Of course, sir." Ben hesitated, then extended a hand to the child, who squealed and ran to him immediately, half clambering up his arm before he could lift her from the floor. "Perhaps the garden, then, Winifred?"

"F'owers!" she approved, and he nodded, carrying her gravely from Sulemann's study and toward the back door. He was fairly certain he could catch up on his work later in the day.

\--

**The Way of Things**  
The old man's voice had grown weak, a bare, rasping whisper that drifted fitfully through the halls of his home, but Ben could still hear him. He rose to his feet from where he had been packing away papers for storage and transport and walked swiftly to the man's bedroom, pausing in the doorway.

"Blast these tubes," Sulemann groused. "Blast those doctors. Blast this whole thing."

"Did you require anything, Mr. Sulemann?" Ben asked,

"No!" He fell silent for a moment, then, "What I require is that you remove these tubes and let me get back to my work!" He sank back against his pillows, though, looking thoroughly drained.

Ben remained silent even after he was spent, and Sulemann glared at him again. Then his expression softened, as though he hadn't the energy to keep even that effort up.

"Benjamin," he said, "sit and talk to me."

"Very well, Mr. Sulemann." He made his way to the edge of the bed and sank to the floor, still, after all this time, without a chair that fit him comfortably.

The old man watched him, expression testy for a moment, then his features once again relaxed, and he turned his gaze to the ceiling, eyes closing as he gathered his thoughts. "Benjamin, you have been present in my legal dealings, and you know the disposition of my will, correct?"

"Yes, Mr. Sulemann."

"I fear they may try to make things difficult for you, but if they have any respect for my wishes at all --" He paused to snort, dismissing the statement entirely. "In any case, I have set aside some money outside the confines of the will. Not much, but safe from any grasping hands."

"If you wish, sir."

"I do wish," Suleman said, expression growing testy again. "My work aside, I have never been terribly concerned with matters of the soul, Benjamin ... but I feel that mine would not rest easy if I didn't give you some recompense for twenty-five years of loyal service."

Benjamin tilted his head, and Sulemann's hand lifted to slap the blanket that covered him, though the effort was little more than a lift and a drop.

"Look at me, Benjamin!" he said, fixing him with a stare that was no less piercing than it had been twenty years prior. "Do you seriously think I could have stopped you had you decided to simply walk out the door? You are a creature with freedoms. The only thing binding you to me is a piece of paper." He sank into his pillow again, gasping, and fixed his employee with a somewhat more tremulous glare. "For pity's sake, Benjamin, I'm a dying man. /Must/ you drive me to such extremes?"

The bear smiled -- or at least formed his nearest approximation. "I apologize, sir."

"In any case," Sulemann continued, once he had caught his breath, "your -- retirement fund, as it were -- is with your belongings, along with a small bonus."

His eyes closed, face drawn and weariness making the lines that marked his long life seem all the deeper. "I hope you will consider continuing the work we've done, though I fear that decision may be made for you. Even if you don't, I hope -- well, I hope you will make use of it."

"I ... will try," Benjamin said, hesitation entering his voice for the first time in the conversation. "You have always treated me fairly, Mr. Sulemann."

Sulemann snorted. "'Fairly,' indeed." A low sigh escaped him, barely any stronger than his regular breathing. "Well, you'll make your way, Benjamin. You're quite capable."

Benjamin's lips curved for the second time into the barest smile. "I do try, Mr. Sulemann."

"Of course you do." He leaned back again, eyes drifting closed almost as if against his will. He was silent for several minutes, his breathing the only sound in the room as Benjamin watched his thin ribs lift and drop with the effort.

His brow wrinkled. He had known his master was aging -- had known he was old -- at the start of his employment, but even so he found it strange to see him this way. Mind trapped in a wasted body, wasted body trapped in a bed of tubes and wires.

He was about to get to his feet and let the man continue sleeping, when a thin hand flailed out toward him.

"Stay with me for a bit, won't you, Benjamin?" the old man said, voice barely a murmur. "I find I'm very tired, but I would like your company for a little longer."

"Of course," Ben said, and he reached out to clasp the bony appendage gently in his much larger, paw-like grasp.

Sulemann smiled, gaze turning briefly to his longtime assistant. "You have always been ... too kind to me."

Ben shook his head, but by then the man had closed his eyes. He didn't open them again.

Even so, the bear sat a long time with the man he had called master, murmuring only, "Good night, Mr. Sulemann," when his breath at last stopped.

\--

**Greener Pastures**  
"Well, at least you're going out with a bang ..."

Ben glanced up at the undeniable note of misery in his manager's voice, and he smiled, zipping the duffel he'd been packing. "You'll find someone else, Mitch."

"Yeah right -- not like you, pal. I'll still be talking about you when I'm going senile." Mitch had aged in these five years, thin hair thinner and grayer, hound dog face sagging even more prominently. "Starting with a major upset, keeping the title for five years /flawlessly/ ..."

"Not so remarkable." He lifted one thick hand and clenched it into a fist, expression thoughtful.

Five years in the pits. He had barely noticed the time pass. But the rush of excitement before each match had faded -- slowly at first -- until they became one more chore in his daily routine. His smile saddened. The world held no more fascination for him -- no more thrill.

Even his final match had been routine -- spectacular, he supposed, for the audience -- but nothing special in his mind. His opponent had fallen under the weight of his fists, and now he left the arena to seek something more.

"Yes, it is! I told you the average lifespan for a fighter down here --"

"I know, Mitch." He shook his head. "I'm sure fighting Reploids have advanced -- there will be someone better than me."

Mitch sighed impatiently, but whatever argument he had readied died on his lips when there came a hesitant knock on the door. Giving him a puzzled look, Mitch turned away to open it, blinking in evident surprise at the person beyond it.

"Got a visitor, Ben."

He looked up and froze in place, brow wrinkling in consternation at the young girl who waved shyly from the hallway.

"Hi, Benny," she said, amending her childhood nickname for present company.

"Winifred --" he started, but she had rushed past Mitch by that point, flinging her arms around him and burying her face in his fur.

"It's been forever! Why didn't you tell me what you were doing? I missed you so much!" She looked up at him with a mock scowl, but there seemed to be real hurt behind the expression.

He sighed, pulling free of her and pushing her out to arm's length, hands on her shoulders and engulfing them. "Winifred, what are you doing here?" he demanded sternly. "This is no place for you to be."

Her mask fell away, hurt plain now. "A ... a friend told me about the pit fights, and we came to see one of the matches ... and I saw your name. I wasn't sure it was you, but -- I came to one of your matches to see, and --" She broke off at the look of alarm on his face. "No, it's fine! I never had any trouble with anybody! I came to every single one after that, too!"

"Every match?"

She nodded, then hesitated. "Well -- until I went to college."

Mitch gave a soft cough, and Ben looked up to see him hovering hesitantly in the doorway. He lifted his hand in a brief wave and sauntered into the hall.

"Winifred, perhaps we should talk somewhere else," Ben said finally. "Let me pack my things. There is a cafe near here -- it should be suitable."

"Sure!" She caught one of his hands as they dropped from her shoulders, and he finished his packing one-handed. "You can call me Freddie, you know -- everybody does now, except Mom."

Ben shook his head. "Let's be on our way."

The cafe was small and dingy, but it was open twenty-four hours, which made it ideal for the bear and his manager to talk shop before going their separate ways. He ordered tea, long habit making it his first choice, and Winifred grinned at him before ordering hot chocolate. The man at the counter seemed mildly disgusted by their choices.

"Why'd you disappear?" Winifred asked abruptly, toying with a coaster someone had left behind on their table. Her glance skated up to him sideways, a tiny frown working at her lips.

"It wasn't my intention to disappear," Ben said, shifting in his seat -- reinforced, thank heaven -- and frowning at his tea. "I was hardly welcome at your home, Winifred. Your mother would have frowned upon my contacting you."

"I guess so," the girl said. "So.. you've been fighting this whole time?"

"I spent the first six months searching for other work," he said, then gave his shoulders an easy, rippling shrug. "I was unsuccessful." He paused for a beat, then changed the subject. "Have you been well? I thought of you from time to time and wondered."

"Well, I've been doing the college thing lately." She smiled, some pride in her voice. "I'm majoring in law -- for now, anyway. Mom wants me to, but I don't know if I want to do it for a living." She sipped her hot chocolate, staring around the room for a moment. "Grandpa wanted you to keep up his work, didn't he?"

"That would have been very difficult. Even he was aware of that." All he'd been able to do was pass the man's work on to the researchers he'd chosen and step out of the way. They had wanted his help even less than the city offices he'd sought employment with.

"But why fighting?" she insisted. "You could get really hurt -- I don't know. It just ... it doesn't seem like you." She bit her lip, but her gaze stayed with his.

He watched her for a moment, ears pricked in surprise, then looked thoughtfully at the table, a faint smile curling his lips. "I suppose it would seem that way," he said finally. "I was taken aback at first, when I found the work to my liking."

Her brow wrinkled, and he resisted a momentary impulse to reach across the space between them and ruffle her hair, as he often had when she was young.

He smiled gently -- as gently as his features allowed -- instead. "Winifred --"

"/Freddie/," she insisted.

"/Winifred/." He gave her a stern look, then began again. "When I lived with your grandfather, my work required a delicate touch. Frail artifacts, frail papers, and a frail old man. In the pits, my work requires no such restraint." He rubbed a paw over his face and frowned. "There was a feeling of such release -- I have no way to describe it."

She watched him a moment, expression pensive. "But you're quitting?"

"I am," he confirmed, pausing to take a long draught of his tea. "There are greener pastures, I'm sure. The pits have lost their minimal allure."

"But where are you going to go?"

"I don't know yet, Winifred." He finished his tea in a gulp and rose. "I'll call you a cab. It's getting late."

"But --"

He frowned. "You already know you shouldn't be here. I would take you home myself, but your family would hardly approve of me arriving on their doorstep with you in tow."

Her lower lip pushed out in a pout, but after a moment the expression grew into something more like genuine distress, and she stood up as well, walking around the table to take hold of his arm. "But you're just gonna leave! And I'll never see you again." The last she said in a mumble and the bear sighed, reaching over once again to rest his free hand on her head.

"If that is the issue ... will you go home if I give you a way to contact me?"

There was a moment of reluctant silence, then she nodded, lifting one arm to scrub hurriedly at her eyes.

"Very well, then." He reached into a pocket of his trousers and tugged out a small device. "This was my manager's. He returned it upon my retirement. Tap this button to page me -- it will send me a signal directly -- and I will contact you as soon as I may."

She took the device from him and looked at it for a moment before closing her fingers around it and shoving it in her pocket. "You promise?"

He opened his mouth, then closed it, thinking better of yet another admonishment. "Yes, Winifred. I promise."

Then she threw her arms around him again, and he let her, stroking gently at her hair and gazing a little vacantly across the cafe, noting that the man behind the counter was looking studiously away. Ben could only guess what he thought of the gesture.

"Come now," he said after a few moments, attempting to pry her loose -- she resisted for several seconds, then relaxed her grip. "A cab." The clerk jerked his chin toward a phone in the corner, and Ben let Winifred make the call, a pout once again gracing her young face. He stayed with her until the vehicle arrived, permitting her to cling to his arm as well.

"I'll call you for sure," she said when the vehicle arrived, voice fierce. "So you better keep your promise."

He smiled, lifting a hand in farewell as she slipped inside. She didn't look back as the cab pulled away, and he lowered his hand, suddenly and inexplicably weary.

"Kind of hard on her, weren't you?"

"I am hardly someone she should be associating with, Mitch." He looked down at his manager, who had crept into the cafe halfway through the conversation -- to wait for his chance to give his farewells, Ben suspected.

"Well, it's none of my business." He grinned, running a hand over his very thin hair. "I guess this is it, huh? Gotta find me some new blood."

Ben chuckled. "You are quite capable. I'm sure I'll see your name soon."

"Hah! Not my name, but my fighter's!" He extended his hand, smile becoming more awkward. "See you around, Ben. It was great workin' with ya."

"A pleasure," Ben agreed, taking -- or rather engulfing -- his former manager's hand and giving it a brief shake.

Released, Mitch turned away, lifting his hand again in a wave as he walked slowly up the street. Ben watched him for a moment, weariness growing heavier, then turned in the opposite direction, toward his apartment. He still had packing to do.


End file.
